Classic Poem

Cuckoo-Bottom

The tunnelling mould-warps
Build their fresh barrows on a kicking corpse;
Where the old barrows linger
This winter sun points no long-shadowed finger.

The thudding race-horse hooves
Print on the sodden soil their lucky grooves,
But wethers chime a bell
Where Briton warriors sleep who sleep too well.

The cuckoo's double note
Loosened like bubbles from a drowning throat
Those Britons do not hear —
Cuckoos in Egypt call this time of year.English